Chapter Thirteen.

A Will Is Made

Diana remained silent, motionless, infinitely withdrawn from the woman beside her. A measureless sorrow weighed upon her, something beyond the natural grief and pity she must feel at hearing the story of her mother’s death. This was bleak, hopeless woe; it was as if she, too, had come to the end of all dear and pleasant things: before her lay the garden, somber, in the dusk; behind her the empty room, haunted by that poor spirit…

“Am I--like that?” she thought. “Not able to face life as it really is?… I’ve managed to get on--without very much, but I’ve always thought there was something better round the next corner… And suppose there isn’t? Suppose there’s never going to be any more for me--than this?”

Aunt Emma had said the stock was tainted. Was she, too, tainted with some fatal instability, some moral weakness that would leave her always friendless, poor, a failure? She had nothing--and from him who hath not, even that which he hath should be taken…

All the anxieties, the bewildered distress of her childhood, came back upon her now; her school-days, when she had been sent to one little private school after another, always trying to adjust herself, always aware that disastrous changes might come at any moment, never knowing that feeling of security and permanence so vital to a child. And as a young girl, there had been no dances, no pretty clothes, no good times; she had had to be her father’s “pal,” he had taken her with him where he wanted to go, had lived as it suited him.

Only those months with Angelina had been happy, in spite of the strange and varied duties. She had loved Angelina; she had been alive there, energetic, alert, gaining every day in self-confidence.

But evidently Angelina had not cared at all about her; she had gone off and forgotten Di.

“I don’t think anyone could ever care much for me,” she thought.

“Now!” said Aunt Emma’s voice, startling her in her bitter reverie. “Don’t stay in here any longer, Diana.”

Di did not answer or move.

“Come!” said Aunt Emma. “For a suggestible mind, the scene of a tragedy is not wholesome. In a room like this. But never mind! Now that I have explained, I think you’ll keep your ideas about Uncle Rufus to yourself. He’s not legally competent to make a will--but it would be extremely difficult to prove that. There would be only your word against Doctor Coat and Purvis and myself and others. And the word of a hysterical person isn’t worth much. No… He’s done as he wanted to do with his money, and it’s to your benefit. You need money more than an ordinary person would. You’re not capable of earning your own living. You’re hysterical and unstable, badly educated and trained.”

Di listened to this without protest. Perhaps it was true… She thought of her mother, who had stood here, where she herself was standing; her mother who had found life too hard, and had put an end to it. Perhaps it had been dark, twilight, as it was now, and when she had died out there, under the pines, perhaps she had seen a sky like this, soft, merciful, with one silver star… And then had closed her eyes, and drifted away into peace… Death was beautiful and blessèd, and life was so hard… To close her own eyes and die--like her mother… She raised her eyes to the sky, and sighed…

Then, suddenly and sharply, something awoke in her; something that had brought her gallantly through all her young life. She straightened her shoulders, and sighed again, a long sigh, as if she were waking from a dream.

After all, it didn’t matter whether life were hard or not, whether it were lonely and anxious.

“I don’t have to be happy,” she thought. “I’ve just got to do the best I can. I’m not down and out yet! I’ll--”

There was a knock at the door.

“Emma!” said Uncle Peter’s voice, apologetically. “There’s a taxi-driver here, asking for ‘a young lady.’ Shall I pay him--?”

“No!” said Di. “He won’t go, anyhow. I told him to wait.”

“Very well!” said Aunt Emma. “Then you’d better go.”

She crossed the room, and opened the door, and Di followed her.

“Please wait a moment, Aunt Emma!” she said. “I want to speak to you.”

“Peter, tell the driver she’ll be down in a few moments,” said Aunt Emma. “Now!”

The door was open and the dim light in the corridor shone into the room. She heard Uncle Peter running down the stairs.

“Well?” asked Aunt Emma.

For a moment Di was silent, struggling with a too rapid flow of thoughts. As if that terrible depression had been actually a dream, she felt a little dazed. It was difficult to come back; to remember all at once…

But she knew now that the blackest hour of her life had passed, and that she had conquered some nameless, formless horror.

“I want to ask you--” she said, “where Mr. Fennel is.”

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you,” Aunt Emma answered. “But no doubt the police will find him before very long.”

“No. I don’t believe that,” said Di, briefly. “Something’s happened to him.”

“Is this a presentiment?” inquired Aunt Emma. “People of your type are very fond of presentiments and strange, occult feelings. Do you ‘just _know_’ that something’s happened to Fennel?”

“It’s not very occult,” said Di. “I’ve got some pretty definite information.”

“Then take it to the police,” said Aunt Emma. “You’d better do that, anyhow. You’ll feel easier. Tell the police that we’ve murdered Fennel. And Wren, too, isn’t it? And that we are now engaged in murdering Uncle Rufus. And any others you feel worried about.”

Diana reflected for a moment.

“She let that detective come and search the house. She’s not afraid of the police. She feels sure that they can’t find out. And what can I really tell them? There’s no proof of any crime--anything having happened to Mr. Fennel. Only that letter, and that could be explained. I’m the only one who can find out. I have the upper hand. This is my chance. The taxi is waiting outside.”

She chose her words with care.

“Aunt Emma,” she said, “if I’m to have Uncle Rufus’s money, and you want to share it, I’ll have to know about Mr. Fennel.”

“You’ve already promised me a share,” said Aunt Emma. “But no doubt you are always able to find satisfactory justification for breaking your word.”

Her cool contempt was having its usual effect, sapping the girl’s self-confidence, making her feel weak, petty, contemptible.

“All right!” she said to herself, “I don’t care! I’m going to see this through, anyhow.” And aloud:

“I’ll make a bargain with you,” she said.

“I’m afraid,” said Aunt Emma, “that making a bargain with you is rather uncertain.”

“Then you _could_ make a bargain?” said Di, quickly. “You _do_ know what’s happened to him?”

“That’s quite intelligent!” said Aunt Emma, in a tone of pleased surprise. “You must be considerably interested in this man, to wake up so.”

“I am,” said Di.

“And what bargain do you propose?”

“If you’ll tell me where he is and what happened to him, I’ll sign some sort of paper, giving you a certain sum.”

“Unfortunately you haven’t a penny.”

“When I get it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Aunt Emma, “but I’m afraid that won’t quite do. A very short time ago you were moved by an impulse of gratitude to offer me a share of any money you might get. This gratitude has apparently evaporated now. You are now, as far as I can see, actuated by an infatuation for this man you scarcely know. If this infatuation should--not be requited, you would resent giving me anything. And you would no doubt find excellent reasons for repudiating this ‘paper’ you are always speaking of. I suppose that idea comes from your father. Probably he signed a good many ‘papers’ in his time.”

“Very likely,” said Di. “But I don’t quite see…” She paused a moment, then she went on, deliberately. “You said you asked me here so that Uncle Rufus would take a liking to me and leave me his money. But if you can’t trust my word, and it’s no good signing a paper, how did you expect to get any of it?”

“Really,” said Aunt Emma, “you have more intelligence than I gave you credit for.”

“I’m just beginning to think…” said Di, half to herself.

It seemed to her of vital importance that she should think, that she should remain quiet and cool, unmoved by the elder woman’s scorn, unconfused by the darkness gathering about her. She had no one but herself to depend upon now.

“I’d like to know,” she said.

“I had,” said Aunt Emma, “three well-considered plans for obtaining a share of that money. One of them has failed. But one of the other two will succeed.”

“What is it?”

Aunt Emma did not answer, and looking at her, Di saw by the dim light an expression that horrified her. For those blue eyes were regarding her with a monstrous sort of pity, as one might look at the last struggles of a trapped animal.

“What are--your plans?” she asked.

“We’ll leave that for the present,” said Aunt Emma; “and discuss this bargain of yours. You wish to know what happened to Fennel. And I’m not at all disposed to tell you. He was a very unwelcome intruder. What’s more, if I do tell you, I have no sort of guarantee that you won’t go off and never communicate with me again.”

“If you won’t tell me,” said Di, “I’m sure to do that.”

“Perhaps it’s better so,” said Aunt Emma.

Di paid no attention to this fencing.

“What do you want me to agree to?” she asked.

“Whatever you agree to will have to be in public,” said Aunt Emma. “Purvis is a lawyer--”

“But you don’t want me to go to him and promise to pay you anything?”

“That would be somewhat crude,” said Aunt Emma. “Even Purvis would find that--peculiar. After all, it’s really your affair, to find some way of satisfying my not unreasonable demands without arousing suspicion. I am certainly entitled to some of that money. From any point of view. I am a nearer relation than you of Rufus Leonard. I should use the money in an excellent cause. And it is due to me alone that you are going to get it. I can’t make you give me anything, and, apparently, the sole claim I have upon you is my knowledge of this Fennel’s whereabouts. Naturally, I shall not relinquish my one advantage without excellent security.”

“What do you suggest?”

“It’s for you to suggest,” said Aunt Emma. “I can think of nothing, except that you might make a will in my favor--”

“A--will? But--”

“Oh, I see the drawbacks to that perfectly well!” said Aunt Emma, with a frown. “In the first place, your Uncle Rufus may live for another five years. And in the second place, there’s nothing to prevent you from making another will to-morrow. The only value would be, that you would be making a public declaration of your no doubt excellent intentions. If you were to declare, in the presence of Purvis and Coat that gratitude impelled you to assign me a share of your legacy, you’d hesitate, after that, to refuse me a loan, when you inherit. It’s a very poor plan--for me. I hope you can think of a better one.”

“I could tell Mr. Purvis that you’d lent money to my parents, and that I considered it my duty--”

“No, thanks!” said Aunt Emma. “That puts me in a very unpleasant light.”

Di was silent, thinking this over in her own characteristic way. She was not cautious, not patient; she wanted to learn about Fennel in a hurry, and be gone. She was certain now that he had been sent away by some chicanery. An attempt had been made to discredit him in her eyes, and probably something had been done to make her seem contemptible to him. And she wanted to find him, and explain.

A new thought struck her, a thought that frightened her. Was it likely that Aunt Emma would willingly let her meet Fennel, to compare notes? He was not likely to let matters rest… No. Aunt Emma must somehow feel herself quite safe from any future interference on the part of Fennel. And what could make her feel safe?

“You--_promise_ to tell me where he is?” she asked.

“If I don’t,” said Aunt Emma, “you can very easily destroy any paper you’ve signed, if my information doesn’t suit you.”

“That’s true,” thought Di. “Suppose I do make a will… She can’t very well be planning to murder me. In the first place, as she said, Uncle Rufus is still alive, that Mr. Purvis and Doctor Coat are here, and the driver’s waiting. Even if she tells me a lie, there’s no harm done. I’ll get away at once, and find some of his friends. And if she’s lied, I’ll destroy the will--make another… No… I don’t see what possible harm it can do, to agree to that now. I want to hear what she has to say about Mr. Fennel.”

She glanced up.

“All right!” she said. “I’ll make a will. And you promise to tell me, as soon as I’ve done that?”

“I promise. But it’s going to be very awkward for me. Purvis may refuse to draw up a will for you. And if he makes any objections, if he appeals to me, I shall certainly uphold him. I don’t intend to appear in the light of a blackmailer, I assure you. You’ll have to make your impulse plausible. And you’ll have to assure him that I know nothing about it.”

“All right!” said Di, again.

“And even when you’ve done that,” said Aunt Emma, “the will won’t be worth the paper it’s written on. I’m obliged to trust you to deal honorably with me. I’m going to give you information that you can use against me. I admit that there was a certain amount of misrepresentation involved in getting Fennel away. I can count only upon whatever sense of honor you have to prevent any further trouble for me. And also upon your disinclination for a family scandal.”

“Misrepresentation…” What had Fennel been told to make him go away?

“I must know,” she thought; and aloud: “I’ll see Mr. Purvis now--”

“I doubt if you can manage him,” said Aunt Emma.

But Di, for all her honesty, her carelessness, was not without subtlety. She made up her mind to “manage” Purvis, and to manage quickly. And she did remarkably well. She found Purvis in the lounge, reading, and she went up to him with an air of urgency.

“Mr. Purvis!” she said. “I’ve got to go back to New York at once, and I don’t want to leave this house until I’ve made a will.”

“A will! But my dear young lady--!”

“Please let me!” she said. “Aunt Emma’s my nearest relation. And she asked me here when it meant--a lot to me. I’d like to feel that if anything should happen to me--a train accident, or anything--”

“But my dear young lady, at the present time… Your Uncle Rufus is--is improving--”

“I know,” she said. “But you never can tell what might happen. And I’d like to feel, before I go away, that I’d done that.”

He began to argue. But Di maintained her attitude of an illogical and impulsive young creature, and that seemed to him perfectly natural. What is more, as the heiress of Rufus Leonard, she had a new importance to him.

And she was assisted by an interruption. There was a knock at the door, and when she ran to open it, the taxi-driver spoke.

“Everything aw’ right?” he asked.

“Please keep on waiting!” she said, very low. “Don’t go away, please. And if I’m not out in half an hour, please knock again and insist on speaking to me.”

“_Aw_’ right!” said he, in a reassuring whisper, and closing the door she turned to Purvis.

“My taxi’s waiting!” she said, plaintively. “Please let me just dash off a will, leaving half the money to Aunt Emma. Even if it seems silly--I’d _like_ to do it.”

Mr. Purvis, like almost everyone else, was rendered nervous by the thought of a taxi-meter steadily ticking up a charge. He urged her to wait, to come to his office the next day and discuss the matter, but he was infected now with her sense of haste.

“I will come to your office,” she said. “This is just temporary--just to make my mind easy before I go. Please help me! That meter must be running up terribly!”

Very reluctantly he yielded, and took out his fountain pen.

“Just please say that half of anything I get is to go to Aunt Emma--”

“And the rest--?”

“Oh… I don’t know… To--Mrs. Frick.”

“Who is Mrs. Frick?”

“Oh, what does it matter!”

“It does matter,” said Purvis. “You don’t realize what you’re doing in the least. Who is this Mrs. Frick?”

“Oh, don’t bother about her. Just say--my heirs and assigns--or whatever they are.”

He argued again, and she became more and more obstinate.

“Well!” she said, with a sigh. “If you won’t, then I’ll have to find some sort of lawyer in the village, on my way to the train. I’m sure I have a legal right to make a will when I want.”

“Yes,” he said, shocked and distressed. “If you insist upon this--this most irregular and unreasonable proceeding. Your aunt--”

“Please don’t tell her!” said Di. “Now!”

He drew up for her a brief will, leaving half of any estate of which she might be possessed to her aunt Emma Leonard, and the remainder to her legal heirs and assigns.

“I’ll read it to you--”

“No, thanks, I’m sure it’s all right. I’m in such a hurry--”

“I insist upon your reading it,” he said, sternly. “You cannot sign a document you have not read.”

So she read it, or pretended to read it.

“Now,” he said. “We must have two witnesses. I’ll get Doctor Coat and your Uncle Peter. And remember, young lady, you are coming to my office to-morrow, to discuss the matter.”

As he began to mount the stairs, Di went to the window and looked out, the taxi stood there, its lights shining on the drive.

“Thank God for that taxi-driver!” she thought. “I’m not--cut off.”

In a few minutes Mr. Purvis descended again, followed by Uncle Peter, very jaunty, and Doctor Coat.

“State in the presence of these witnesses the nature of the document you are signing,” said Mr. Purvis, frigidly.

“This is my last will and testament,” said Di.

And as she spoke those words aloud, she began to realize what she was doing. As she took the pen in her hand, it seemed to her that she was about to sign her own death-warrant.